


sweet poison

by curiositykilled



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Self-Esteem Issues, empress allura - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-01-30 01:39:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12643524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: “The Blue Lion was hidden on my planet – Earth – and led us to the Castle of Lions,” Shiro explains. “Princess Allura was put into cryosleep by King Alfor – she showed us how to find our lions and form Voltron. We’ve been fighting Zarkon together for the past three years.”“Zarkon is dead.”It’s the third who speaks up, and Shiro freezes at their voice. It can’t be – and yet, as she steps in the light, it is. Allura stares coolly down at him, her eyes hard as ice chips. There is no warmth there, no fondness or love. She’s not his Allura, he knows instinctively.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by talking to [andriseup](http://andriseup.tumblr.com/) and by iacediai's [amazing Empress Allura designs](http://iacediai.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Originally posted on [ my tumblr](http://curiosity-killed.tumblr.com/post/166367166965/sweet-poison)

He wakes slowly, crumpled on a cold, hard floor. There’s a bone-deep ache to his body, like the day after a race, but his head is clear enough.  _Not drugged,_  he thinks with no small relief. His time with the Druids – both times – taught him too well to fear them. Physical aches, broken bones – those are far more easily worked through than having his mind taken from him in a blurry haze.

For now, he keeps his eyes shut and works on collecting information about his surroundings through his other senses. He’s still in his armor, and his right hand is unfettered. Whoever captured him clearly hasn’t seen him fight. Not Galra, then.  _Or…_  He hesitates, skin crawling at the thought. Or they’re too powerful to consider him a threat. He swallows and reinstates Galra as an option.

Beyond him, the room is quiet except for a familiar rumble of engines. It’s not the bone-aching whine of Galra ships but something closer to the low hum of the Castle of Lions. Another mental checkmark is made next to his second theory. He can’t quite place the smell of it – is that blood or is it oil? – but his sense of smell has never quite been right since getting the scar across his face. At this point, he’s better off simply being grateful it doesn’t have the overbearing reek of the Galra prisons – piss and rot and fear.

There is the hiss of a seal opening from some distance away, then clipped footsteps. Shiro breathes slowly and counts them. There are three sets, and Shiro counts sixty-five steps before they come to a halt behind him. He breathes slowly in and out, too conscious of the expansion of his chest beneath his cuirass.   
  
“We know you’re awake, rebel.”  
  
He considers faking it longer, to see if they’re bluffing, but brushes that away in favor of gathering more data about his captors. He rolls up to sit cross-legged on the floor, affecting a nonchalance he doesn’t feel. For all the times he’s found himself imprisoned, it has yet to become any more comfortable.  
  
He falters at the sight before him. There’s a trio, though the third stands back far enough from the cell to be out of the bright-white light illuminating it. They’re human.  _Wait. No._  Shiro stares, pretense at indifference lost. Their cheekmarks glow gently, overpowered by the cell light but not obliterated. Orange for the one and pink for the other, darker than Allura’s. Their clothes aren’t quite like Allura and Coran’s – there’s something off in the height of the collar or in the line of the shoulders or – Shiro can’t quite place it other than  _something_  is wrong.   
  
That, in and of itself, is enough to make it click for Shiro. The others told him about their trip to the alternate reality – the one with his Swedish lookalike and no Galra Empire. This, he assumes, must be more of the same.  
  
“I’m not a rebel,” he starts, keeping his voice even. “I’m from an alternate reality.”  
  
Their stern expressions don’t waver, and Shiro prepares himself for an uphill fight. He had hoped that they would be familiar enough with the concept to at least be ready to believe him. It had, admittedly, been a small hope.  
  
“In my reality, Princess Allura leads the Paladins of Voltron against the Galra Empire,” he explains.   
  
There’s a shift in the group, a slight weight adjustment that sets the two he can see in a more defensive position before the third. Shiro hesitates, unsure of where he misstepped.   
  
“Voltron? Voltron’s been lost for a thousand years,” one of the Alteans says.  
  
“The Blue Lion was hidden on my planet – Earth – and led us to the Castle of Lions,” Shiro explains. “Princess Allura was put into cryosleep by King Alfor – she showed us how to find our lions and form Voltron. We’ve been fighting Zarkon together for the past three years.”  
  
“Zarkon is dead.”  
  
It’s the third who speaks up, and Shiro freezes at their voice. It can’t be – and yet, as she steps in the light, it is. Allura stares coolly down at him, her eyes hard as ice chips. There is no warmth there, no fondness or love. She’s not his Allura, he knows instinctively.   
  
“Allura,” he still breathes out in surprise, in awe.  
  
There is a blade-sharp coldness to her that is missing from the Allura he knows. Her jaw is harder, cheek marks jagged as they skirt the edges of her cheekbones. There’s something familiar in their lightning bolt V, as if he’s seen the same shape elsewhere.   
  
“Do not speak to the Empress, rebel,” one of the others, the one with the pink marks, snarls.   
  
Allura holds one hand out just barely, and the Altean stills and falls back in line with their head ducked. Allura eyes Shiro dispassionately as she folds her hands behind her back once more. Her dark cloak is ornate, high-collared and pauldroned in gold ornamentation. He’s grateful, in that instant, that he hadn’t decided to stand up when the Alteans first arrived. He knows, unquestioningly, that he would be on his knees regardless. There is something in her bearing that makes him want to bow, to prostrate himself before her.  
  
“What is your name?” she asks.  
  
“Shiro,” he says. “Takashi Shirogane.”  
  
If he had hoped for any sign of recognition, it was quashed by her continued neutral expression.  
  
“You are a paladin, then,” she states.  
  
Shiro falters, mouth clicking shut. He recomposes himself as best he can, knowing that hesitation is apt to make them disbelieve him.  
  
“I was,” he says. “I used to be the Black Paladin.”  
  
The words sting on their way out, nine little paper cuts against his tongue. Allura waits, exuding the kind of patience that comes from knowing that her opponent will, inevitably, capitulate.  
  
“I was captured by the Galra,” he explains reluctantly. “They held me prisoner. When the other paladins found me, the Black Lion wouldn’t accept me as her pilot. I’m just auxiliary now.”  
  
“The Black Lion rejected you because of your contact with the Galra?” Allura asks.  
  
Shiro’s hands tighten, mismatched fists curling against his thighs. He forces himself to flatten them out, to swallow down the self-disgust that floods his chest with sickly purple ichor and find his voice. It comes out a little tighter than he’d like but as passably diplomatic; he’s gotten a lot of practice wearing a mask the past few years.  
  
“I had some injuries from my captivity,” he says, giving a small shrug. “Memory problems, flashbacks – I wasn’t a reliable leader anymore.”  
  
He battles back the bitterness that threatens with the admission. Keith is a good leader – exactly as he’d predicted. He’d known Keith would be, wanted Keith to take his place. He’d just assumed he’d be dead when it happened. He hadn’t considered he might be a spectator to his own replacement.  
  
“And the other paladins?”  
  
It takes a moment for Shiro to process the question. Even when he does, there are too many answers. He pauses to parse through them before replying.  
  
“Four of them are from Earth as well,” he says, “and Allura is the fifth, now. They must have been too far from the blast to be teleported.”  
  
Allura considers him a long moment before nodding once. The other two Alteans watch her attentively, as if trying to preemptively obey her orders. Allura turns to return back the way the three had come, and Shiro feels his shoulders slump in disappointment.   
  
“Take him to the emissary quarters and have him prepared for dinner in my suite,” Allura orders over her shoulder.  
  
The pink-marked Altean straightens, confusion crinkling their forehead.  
  
“Empress?” they ask, uncertain.  
  
Allura looks back at them, not bothering to turn around fully. Her expression is cool as before, but she raises her brow at their question. Immediately, the Altean seems to shrink in on themselves.    
  
“The Black Paladin was once an honored guest on Altea,” Allura says. Her eyes cut down to Shiro, and he feels a shiver run through him. “Perhaps this one will reclaim that honor.”  
  
She sweeps away with the hush of her cape on the floor and doesn’t look back, leaving Shiro with the two attendants. He watches her go, realizing for the first time how much danger he’s in. This isn’t the Galra’s indomitable might but something far more treacherous: a predator, with a thousand years’ experience, lying in wait.


	2. Chapter 2

                  He’s washed brusquely, whisked through a high efficiency shower that leaves his skin red and scoured. They offer no protection his prosthesis and his attempts to protect it are futile in the face of the omni-directional shower. He grits his teeth and pushes down the urge to snap at the Alteans he knows stand just on the other side of the door. He wants to make a good impression, after all.

                  Rather than a towel, he’s passed through what appears to eb a room-sized hand dryer. The hot air buffets him, ruffling his hair and leaving his skin slightly overwarm, as if they left him in there just a few minutes too long. The doors hush open to reveal not an Altean but another alien, one with downcast eyes and a glossy necklace around its neck.

                  Shiro’s stomach squirms with discomfort at the sight. It’s far too delicate to compare to the heavy collar he wore in the prisons, but the choker-like design still leaves him uneasy. It takes too much effort to stifle the urge to rub at the spot on his neck where burn scars still mark his skin like red lace.

                  “Thanks,” he says as the alien directs him into what appears to be a dressing room.

                  They say nothing, but he can’t tell if it’s because they can’t or just don’t understand English. He tells himself it’s the latter.

                  Fresh clothes are laid out on a bench here – tunic, pants, boots, underclothes. They look perfectly tailored, and he has to force his paranoia back into the locked box he keeps in his mind. Of course they have biometric scanners throughout the ship. It’s not the first time he’s had his privacy invaded and certainly far from the worst. It’s not like new clothes can compare to a new arm.

                  The pants fit like his undersuit – snug and tailored to his form with reinforced knees. They hook over his heels like stirrups and shift with his body like a second skin. The tunic that goes overtop is less familiar, though the design seems similar to what he’s seen Coran and Allura wear: a high collar that sweeps in clean lines over his shoulders, a segmented front with crisp blue and white blocks. He smooths down the front of the shirt and turns to take a look in the mirror.

                  Braced as he is for something uncomfortable, foreign, he still isn’t ready for what he sees. A stranger looks back at him with exhausted eyes. The leanness of his frame, muscles forced to strengthen without proper nutrients, is accentuated by the impeccable cut of the clothing. He looks desperate – empty. How long has it been since he saw himself properly? He threw a spare blanket over the mirror in his room in the Castle of Lions after the second time he came back, as if he could block out everything different and wrong by jut not looking.

                  There’s a knock at the door.

                  “One minute, please,” he calls, jolting out of his shock.

                  He hurries to tug on socks and boots that fit just as perfectly as the rest and has just fastened the last hook on his boots when the door opens.

                  The pink-marked Altean from earlier stands outside, posture stiff and stance military. He straightens reflexively, shoulders squaring. It’s an automatic response drilled into him first by Garrison etiquette and then by arena necessity: make himself bigger, more threatening – and draw attention away from the ones who couldn’t take another beating. It doesn’t matter that there’s no one here to protect; he’s fairly sure the response will take him to the grave before he unlearns it.

                  “The Empress is ready for you. Paladin.”

                  The last is added as if forced from them, pulled like teeth. He wonders that they offered it at all until he remembers the perfectly cut clothing. Of course. Who would be willing to rebel when they knew someone was always watching?

                  “Lead the way,” he says, “please.”

                  Honey over vinegar and all that. Public relations, it seemed, is universal, and he can turn bared teeth into a smile better than anyone. Until he has a way home – _no. Back to the team,_ he corrects – until then, he’d do whatever he could to win allies here.

                  They look no more pleased, but the Altean turns and begins a clipped walk down the corridor. The pace they set is nearly as fast as a walk could be before turning into a run, but Shiro lengthens his strides and keeps pace. This earns him one disgruntled, side-eyed look, but the Altean doesn’t increase their speed. Instead, they walk in silence through a geometric labyrinth of halls before stopping abruptly.

                  Shiro frowns, unsettled by the blank sameness of the hall around them. There are no markers, no adornment, to suggest an empress’ quarters. Unease prickles at the back of his neck.

                  The Altean turns to him, expression hardened into something that reminds him of Keith – unrelenting, focused, ruthless.

                  “The Empress is more than capable of defending herself, but if you even think of harming her, she will not have to raise a finger for your life to end,” they snarl, low. “We would all gladly give our lives in her service.”

                  _Oh._ That sends a wave of familiarity through Shiro that nearly rocks him on his feet. These past years, he’s thought Keith’s loyalty to be unmatched by any other’s, but now he sees it staring him back in the face from cold, dark eyes. To be granted that kind of devotion is a humbling thing, and he begins to get an inkling of the kind of leader this universe’s Allura must be to have earned it from her soldiers.

                  “I know you have no cause to believe me, but I swear causing your empress or any of you harm is the last thing I want,” he promises. “I just want to get back to my team.”

                  As expected, this does little to nothing to appease the Altean. They eye him with distrust still, but finally turn to keep walking. This time, their route is shorter and more direct; Shiro can see the great doors of their destination some time before they reach it.

                  The doors themselves have the same sleek design as the rest of the ship, but over them is a lion in the baroque style of the empress’ pauldrons. Its eyes appear wide open, lips pulled back in a snarl that bares fangs longer than Shiro’s hand. In the cyan light of the corridor, their points gleam like blades.

                  The Altean hesitates outside them for a moment, stance uncertain and hands half-fisted, before they relent and rap twice on the great doors. They recede into the walls with the barest whisper, leaving Shiro and the Altean standing on the threshold of a cavernous room. The Altean grunts and gestures for Shiro to enter but doesn’t follow him. Instead, the doors hush closed at Shiro’s back and he turns to face the room alone.

                  It’s a banquet hall of some sort – a long table holds center stage, an impossible chandelier suspended above it. The room itself is bare of decoration aside from the blue lights of the palace and great gold crest on the wall behind the far end of the table. Curious, Shiro skirts the edge of the table until he stands just under the crest.

                  It takes him a minute to recognize it. He’d blame it on the styling or the fact that he’s usually looking from a different vantage point, but he knows it’s neither of those. Voltron, in their world, is a warrior, a soldier made up of a ragtag team just barely holding back the darkness that threatens the universe.

                  Voltron here is something else. Something more – and less. There’s a grace to its stern brow, an elegance to the gold curves of its face that is too much to be real. Looking up at the gilded crest, he doesn’t see a warrior but a legend. Something that has been whispered so many times that it’s grown into something far bigger than it was and yet something nearly meaningless – the repetition of a name into nothing but noise.

                  “It’s not very accurate, is it?”

                  Shiro doesn’t jerk around, though he can’t help starting a little at Allura’s voice. He’s grown used to recognizing her steps through the castle ship that he’s almost never surprised. He hadn’t heard this Allura at all.

                  She steps up to his side with her hands clasped loosely behind her back. She’s changed, though the heavy cloak remains the same. The gown she wears pools out behind her like the night sky turned to fabric, gliding up her frame to culminate in a sleek collar around her neck. The adornments are few: cyan bars curve over her collarbones, lower ribs, and her wrists. The rest is the same blue-black of empty space.

                  “I’ve mostly seen Voltron from inside the lions,” Shiro evades.

                  “You don’t have to lie, Takashi Shirogane,” Allura replies. “I was there when my father made Voltron. I remember his face.”

                  Wincing slightly, Shiro inclines his head in polite concession.

                  “It’s a little exaggerated,” he admits.

                  Something verging on a smile flits over Allura’s lips – just a slight curve and then gone. She turns from the crest and he follows as she gestures for him to take a seat. Fortunately, it’s the one to the left of the head of the table rather than at the entire other end as he’d feared. He can’t imagine having a conversation from either end without yelling, and he doesn’t think that would be conducive to gaining the empress’ aid.

                  “How would you improve it?” she asks when they’re seated.

                  Two aliens come in bearing trays they set in front of Allura and Shiro. They’re both wearing similar necklaces to the one he saw earlier and neither speak. Shiro turns his gaze away, to where Allura watches him patiently.

                  “I’m not much of an artist,” he hedges.

                  “Indulge me,” Allura insists.

                  The aliens press something on the trays and their lids dissolve into fizzles of light. With a bow, the aliens exit. Allura doesn’t begin eating but instead lifts the glass from her tray and holds it as she considers Shiro. Swallowing, he scrounges for an answer.

                  “I guess it looks a little…soft,” he says. “The Voltron I know is – well, pretty dinged up. We’ve been in a lot of battles and you can tell. The paint’s scratched and there are dents in the armor – that kind of thing. The lions are pretty good at repairing themselves, and Pidge, Hunk, and Coran are great – but it’s not perfect.”

                  “It looks like an ideal, then,” Allura summarizes.

                  “Yeah,” Shiro says, nodding. “Exactly. Like what Voltron _should_ look like – in a story or something.”

                  Allura sets her glass back down with a thin, closed-lip smile. In its place, she picks up knife and fork to set about eating. Shiro follows her lead after a moment’s pause. The food is nothing he recognizes – neither something approximating Earth cuisine nor the amorphous green of food goo.

                  “For most of the universe, Voltron is just a story,” Allura says. “It’s been a thousand years since it was seen, as Kajir said. There are very few who remember it as it was.”

                  Shiro chews through his bite of food, frowning. He can’t quite place the taste – bitter but full-bodied, with a texture approximating a potato. Swallowing, he takes a drink of what appears to be nunvil – the only thing on the table he can identify – before speaking.

                  “I don’t mean to be rude, but if it’s been a thousand years – and no one else has lived that long – how…” he hesitates, trailing off as he realizes he can’t find a polite way to ask his question.

                  “How am I still alive?” Allura asks.

                  The smile she turns his way is not a pleasant one. Her teeth don’t show in the curve of her lips, but her expression is no less dangerous for them. The back of Shiro’s neck prickles with apprehension.

                  “I’m sure you’ve noticed my cheekmarks aren’t quite the same as your Allura’s by now,” she says, cold. “Quintessence has its benefits.”

                  _Oh_ , Shiro thinks again, his skin suddenly cold. The food he’s just eaten turns ashy in his stomach. He knows why those jagged marks seem familiar, where last he saw them. For a moment, the image flits into his mind and lingers: Haggar’s face above him as she worked with those red lines dripping down her cheeks like blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ripperoo Shiro


	3. Chapter 3

                  Sleep doesn’t come easily to him that night, despite the luxurious bed in which he’s ensconced. If anything, the plush mattress exacerbates his chaotic thoughts. He stares up at the dark ceiling for hours, battling back his turmoil as if it’s not already won.

                  This Allura is cold and hard and ruthless. She knows who she is in a way Shiro never has, and she wields that knowledge both as armor and weapon. She reminds him less of the Allura he knows and more of something from myth. Old middle school knowledge flits through his thoughts and sticks: Sekhmet, a goddess of war, of the hunt. He brushes it away but the impression lingers.

                  And yet – she reminds him of his Allura. In moments, absent gestures of the occasional phrase. He can’t decide if it’s comforting to know that she’s still half-familiar or terrifying to see who she could become.

                  “Fuck,” he groans.

                  Rolling over to drop his feet off the bed, he takes one blanket and heads to the far corner of the room. It’s got clear sightlines to the door but is partially hidden by a vanity area. He tucks himself down into the space and curls under the blanket, his eyes on the door. He doesn’t sleep exactly, but he slips into the light doze he learned in the arena. The door doesn’t open once, but he can’t escape the feeling of someone watching him through the night.

                  In the morning, the same Altean comes to retrieve him. He’s already finished his morning exercises – a mix of ones he stole from high school physical therapy – but is still in his borrowed pajamas when there’s a knock at the door.

                  “The Empress will see you,” they say dispassionately.

                  “Should I wear my armor?” Shiro asks after a glance at his bare feet.

                  It was in the room when he arrived last night, carefully stowed in the armoire in the far wall. That, at least, had been a relief.

                  The Altean scowls, expression twisting with a level of anger Shiro can’t understand. They look away, down the hall.

                  “No. Suitable clothing has been provided,” they say, clipped. After a moment, they turn to meet his gaze. “Do not ever wear that armor before the Empress.”

                  They provide no further explanation, only leave Shiro still standing there with the warning that someone else will be there with his clothes. He watches them go for a moment, unsettled, before they turn a corner and disappear.

                  Within minutes, one of the alien servants arrives with an armful of neatly folded clothing. This fits just as well as the previous night’s clothes but is much more complex, and the alien has to help Shiro through all the layers. They are silent throughout.

                  “What’s your name?” Shiro finally asks, desperate.

                  The alien doesn’t have eyes to blink, but its suddenly rigid posture says enough. Shiro sighs, resigned, and turns back to pulling on his boots.

                  “You may call be Calla. I work to serve the Empress.”

                  The voice is a little off, nearly robotic, but Shiro’s relief at getting a reply is enough to brush off any unease. He smiles at them.

                  “Nice to meet you, Calla. I’m Shiro,” he says.

                  They nod a little jerkily, and Shiro feels a curl of sympathy in his chest. The Alteans he’s met so far seem rigid and constrained as their sleek ship. He can imagine the barriers they might impose based on rank or race. The latter thought fans that sympathy into anger, indignation at the kinds of systems that categorize and compartmentalize people in the first place.

                  “Thank you for your help, Calla,” he says. “This is all pretty unfamiliar.”

                  Their four hands are clasped before them, and a long tail curls around one of their ankles. They give a little bow, stiff.

                  “I work to serve,” they say.

                  _Right._ Shiro tries not to let his frustration show, and only says goodbye as Calla passes silently through the door again. Dropping his elbows to his thighs, he stares down at the gloves covering them and composes himself. He’s being treated like a guest of honor, he knows. He has no room to complain – not compared to how it could be.

                  Yet he can’t fight the feeling that something else is going on, something much bigger than he knows. It’s in the way Allura had spoken of the black paladin, the wrath that had flitted over the Altean’s face at the mention of his armor, the silence of the servants here. A universe in which Zarkon had been defeated before he could do any real damage to Altea should be a miracle. Instead, it feels as if he’s walking along a narrow bridge in darkness and any wrong step could send him plummeting to a deep, dark death.

                  “You can do this,” he mutters.

                  He has to. He has to get back to the team. This universe isn’t his to change or fuss over. His only job is to get back to the team.

                  _And then what?_

                  The thought jars him. He’s been so focused on getting back to his own universe that he hasn’t thought of what comes next. Black rejected him. The team forms Voltron as smoothly as ever in their new positions. Keith has become a leader that guides them surely and without freezing up or ejecting their key prisoner into space. What place is there for Shiro in this new order?

                  He doesn’t have time to answer the question before the Altean is back to retrieve him. Still unsteady, Shiro tries to force a pleasant expression and easy manner back into his attitude. It’s difficult when the Altean presents him only a blank wall.

                  “What should I call you?” he finally asks.

                  “Lieutenant Kajir of the Royal Guard of Her Imperial Majesty Allura, Empress of Altea and Defender of the Universe,” they rattle off.

                  _Ah. So that’s how it’s going to be._ Shiro narrows his eyes slightly before relaxing and smiling sweetly.

                  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Kajir of the Royal Guard of Her Imperial Majesty Allura, Empress of Altea and Defender of the Universe,” he says. “I wanted to thank you for your assistance while I’m staying here.”

                  Kajir shoots a disgruntled side-eye his way before grunting and turning back to the front.

                  “Lieutenant Kajir will do,” they mutter.

                  They don’t thaw after that, but they don’t attempt to outwalk him again or make any more threats. As small a relief as that is, Shiro still counts it as a win. He’d maintained dual ranks as the top student and top pain-in-the-ass of the Galaxy Garrison for four years. He’s not afraid to utilize those skills here, if that’s what it takes to get answers.

                  “Do all Alteans live on this ship?” he asks.

                  They’ve passed innumerable doors at this point and a good number of other Alteans. Some seem to be soldiers and salute Kajir as they pass, but others merely give a friendly nod and keep walking.

                  Immediately, Kajir’s expression turns suspicious, and Shiro fends off a groan as he raises his hands, placating.

                  “I’m just curious,” he says. “My universe is quite different than this one.”

                  “I wouldn’t ask too many questions,” Kajir spits. “You might not like the answers, Champion.”

                  Shiro falters, flinching. He hasn’t told them of his time in the arena. He only said he was a prisoner. But the way Kajir threw the word was like an arrow sharpened and aimed directly. He resumes walking, but he doesn’t try to catch up to where Kajir walks three strides ahead.

                  They don’t go to the same chambers as the night before but instead stop at a smaller door, without the grand adornment. Kajir raps once at the door, hard, and the door slides into the frame as usual. Shiro passes through without another look to Kajir.

                  Inside, Allura sits at a desk, bent so that her thick hair hides her face. Two braids wrap around the crown of her head, meeting in the back and revealing the tips of her ears, but the rest falls long and loose over her shoulder. Looking at it, Shiro can nearly feel it against his hands, the memory of running his fingers through it in another universe. He clears his throat.

                  “Lieutenant Kajir said you wished to see me,” he says.

                  “Empresses don’t wish,” Allura mutters absently. She finishes whatever she was doing and straightens to look at Shiro. “But yes, I did have them bring you to me.”

                  She stands and gestures to a sitting area opposite the desk. Despite being apparently for conversation, it doesn’t look particularly inviting: the furniture has the same sharp style as the rest of the ship, and neither of the two seats offer more room than necessary. Still, he isn’t in a position to refuse.

                  Allura sits down after him, leaning back in her seat. With her in it, it suddenly looks less like a mere chair and more like a throne. It’s as if her presence is a sort of alchemy, changing things into more than they are with just a touch.

                  “It’s not often we get visitors from other universes,” Allura explains, “and I’m not one to miss an opportunity.”

                  “You have questions,” Shiro surmises.

                  She smiles. It’s almost sweet, except for how it doesn’t reach her eyes.

                  “For what reason?” Shiro asks.

                  He can’t help being wary of her. Although he can’t readily imagine a way or reason for Allura to attack his reality, that doesn’t mean there isn’t one out there. She has age, experience, and cunning that he can’t fathom. It stands to reason she’d find a use for the knowledge long before he could.

                  “There’s no reason for suspicion, Takashi,” she says with a laugh. “I know it may not seem it, but I’m something of a scholar. My library may not be the largest in the universe, but it’s certainly comprehensive.”

                  She says it with a little smile, softer than the one before, and a tap to her temple. Shiro nods slowly.

                  “A thousand years is a long time to accumulate knowledge,” he acknowledges.

                   “Exactly,” Allura agrees, “and with the peace we’ve had, I’ve had extra time on my hands to research. I’m nearly running out of sources.”

                  It makes sense, inasmuch as anything here makes sense. He’s a curiosity, and who knows how long he’ll be here. Of course she’d want to take advantage of it.

                  “What do you want to know?” he asks.

                  “Tell me about yourself,” she says. “Your home and how you ended up so far away among the stars.”

                  Her smile is the same easy one it’s been, and her tone isn’t anymore urgent, but there’s a subtler shift. Her posture’s just slightly tauter, as if she’s barely keeping herself from leaning forward, and her eyes – her eyes. Something gapes in them, hungry and urgent. He can’t bring himself to look away.

                  “I’m from Earth,” he begins. “It’s a small planet in a young solar system, thousands of light years away. Most of it is covered in water – oceans miles deep – but the land is full of life. We don’t have a lot of space travel yet, but it’s coming. We’ve spent our whole history looking to the skies…”

                  The words spill out of him, all homesickness and wonder. Allura doesn’t say a word. She watches him with those piercing eyes, as if she’ll find in an answer in his words if she only looks long enough.

                  He tells her of Japan, of the grandparents who raised him and the mother he never knew. His whole life unspools between them – moving to America on a scholarship to the stars, meeting Keith and Matt and feeling as if his life was charmed, flying to Kerberos and seeing his home vanish into a tiny blue spot among billions. Voltron, the other paladins – it all comes out.

                  Except the arena.

                  He doesn’t think of it consciously, but his words wrap around that hellish year. He tells her of his childhood dreams and of their recent fights, but it remains a dark hole in the weaving. If Allura notices, she doesn’t ask after it, and it isn’t until he’s finally run out of words that Shiro even realizes he did it.

                  Allura leans back in her chair, gaze gone distant. Shiro watches her and scours her face for any reaction. He doesn’t know why it should matter what she thinks of what he’s said, but he finds himself suddenly hungry for her approval.

                  “Incredible. I never could have imagined” – she shakes her head, cutting off the quiet words.

                  She turns back to him with a small smile. Her gaze has returned to this plane, but her expression is more shuttered now. That raw hunger in her eyes has disappeared behind bright shields.

                  “Thank you, Takashi Shirogane,” she says. “You’re quite a storyteller.”

                  Abashed, Shiro ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. His fingers hit the collar of his shirt and the low cut of his hair, and he drops his hand back to his lap.

                  “Oh, I’m really not that great,” he says. “You should hear-”

                  Allura raises a hand and he cuts off immediately. He can’t quite parse her expression this time: though a smile curves her lips, it’s small and there’s a kind of melancholy in her eyes.

                  “I wanted to hear you,” she said. “It’s been too long.”

                  He frowns, caught off-guard. Allura freezes for a moment, the first time he’s seen her falter. When she continues, that bittersweet expression has vanished.

                  “Since I heard such a story,” she clarifies. “They all start to sound the same after a while. Yours was refreshing.”

                  Her words are a little stilted, and Shiro can’t fight the feeling that that isn’t really what she meant. Before he can question it, though, she’s risen and he follows suit.

                  “Kajir will take you to lunch,” she says as she strides back across the room, “and from there, wherever you wish until the evening meal.”

                  Shiro nods, mute. Allura flashes him another quick smile, and then he’s out in the hall with Kajir once more. Immediately, Kajir starts back down the hall and Shiro follows. As they walk, the back of his neck prickles with the sensation of being watched, and he twists around to look back down the hall. It’s empty, still, and only the closed door remains at its end.

                  He turns back to the front, but the sensation doesn’t abate. Despite Kajir’s earlier warning, Shiro finds himself with a dozen more questions all crowding the back of his throat. Above all of them, the memory of Allura’s eyes remains. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and a shiver chases down his arms. The feeling of being watched increases for a moment and then, as they turn a corner in the hall, disappears.                  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> muahahaha i have so much fun writing this y'all and it's gonna get SO ANGSTY i can't wait


	4. Chapter 4

                  Lunch is, of course, alone. Kajir leads him to a small dining room and a new servant serves him. He’s too tired and confused to try picking up a conversation this time. It probably wouldn’t work anyway, and his mind is buzzing with answerless questions. He can’t bring himself to try.

                  At the time, he hadn’t realized how long he’d spent with Allura. The words had just spilled out of him as if compelled. Allura’s rapt attention had been all that really mattered. Now, though, it’s as if he’s been pulled out of a too-long nap, where the world’s a little fuzzy and only seems half-real. There’s a headache pounding at his temples, and his eyes feel dry.

                  “Is there a gym or something I could use?” he asks.

                  Kajir tenses, and Shiro nearly wants to scream. He pastes on a small smile instead.

                  “I’m used to training with the other paladins every day,” he explains. “Sitting still makes me a little stir-crazy.”

                  It’s hard to say if his explanation actually diminishes Kajir’s suspicion. Their narrowed eyes and the way their lips tighten aren’t very promising. Only after a long moment do they relent.

                  “The upper parade is available for walking,” they concede.

                  As far as victories go, it’s miniscule – it’s not even really what he asked for. It’s enough, though. He just needs to get out of this cloistered sameness, the monotony of four walls fencing him in. He’s never been claustrophobic, couldn’t have made it as a pilot if he was, but there’s something suffocating about these rooms. He needs an escape, even if only for an hour.

                  Kajir leads him down hallways that look identical to those he’s trod before even though they’re in the opposite direction, and Shiro mentally prepares himself for the parade to be more of the same. _It’s fine,_ he tells himself. _At least it’s something._ They pass more people as they walk, Alteans and servants alike, and the doors they pass now hold more noise behind them. Conversation, laughter, the sounds of life beyond the strict military silence he’s encountered.

                  Shiro hadn’t realized he’d missed it till now. For the past three years, he’s been so focused on survival, on fighting and winning this war. Before that, it was surviving the arena with a shred of sanity intact. When was the last time he thought of something past just making it through? There are days when he hardly remembers his life on Earth; it all seems a little too distant and surreal, halcyon.

                  A door slides shut as they pass, but not quickly enough to hide the sound within. A cacophony of chatter cut off – all unmistakably children’s voices. Shiro frowns. He doesn’t bother asking Kajir given the icy response it would surely receive, but something wriggles under his skin long after they’ve left that door behind them. He pushes it in among those other thoughts he doesn’t let himself think and turns back to the present ass the final doors open to their destination.

                  “Oh,” he says, a little dumbly.

                  He’d prepared himself for disappointment, but it’s not a continuation of the ship’s monotony that greets them. It’s something else entirely.

                  Stars hang suspended around them, nebulae distant blooms against eh abyss of space. They feather out in impossible shades with stars cradled in their ephemeral arms. If the ship is moving, it’s only barely; they’re steady enough for Shiro to track a comet as it streaks past. A tail of icy blue lingers in its wake, fading slowly into the nothingness.

                  “’scuse us, mister!”

                  It’s a young voice, and Shiro only just jumps back as a pair of lean young Alteans sprint past. An artificial breeze follows them and brushes his hair back from his forehead. He stares after them a minute as they round the curve, arms and legs pumping. Keith once challenged him to a race on a track like this. He wonders if he remembers.

                  “The inside lane is for walking,” Kajir says. Shiro looks up to see them scowling after the runners. “They should know better.”

                  It’s the first time Shiro’s seen that surliness directed at someone other than himself, and he’s caught somewhere between wanting to laugh and feeling bad for the younger Alteans. He only just stops himself from joking that they must have picked up some Earth customs. Somehow, he doesn’t think Kajir would appreciate it.

                  They start walking again, this time along the oblong track. It’s springier than on Earth, and Shiro’s nearly tempted to just stop and bounce on it a minute. He refrains, for now. Where the track begins to curve into the straightaway, the wall they’ve been following shifts into clear glass. He’s immediately drawn to it and pauses to the inside of the track to look out.

                  It’s a long way down, but Shiro recognizes the bottom with heart-sinking familiarity. How many times has he walked across that grey floor in his own universe? To reach Black, pull Pidge from a new project on Green, carry Keith from Red? It’s always been a big room, but looking at it now, the hangar seems cavernous. It was made for Voltron. Empty like this, it looks like a tomb.

                  “It’s a memorial,” Kajir says, stepping up beside him.

                  “For the paladins?” Shiro asks.

                  He doesn’t really wan to know. It’s too easy to imagine each of them limp and ashy. He’s had too many nightmares of the same exact them; all of them dead while he stumbles, useless, among their corpses. His stomach clenches and turns as a new thought occurs to him. Is that what it took for Altea to survive in this universe? Total sacrifice?

                  “No,” Kajir says. “For everyone else.”

                  They step away and leave Shiro looking down into the empty grave. Their words echo around his head and even when he tries to push them away, they linger. _I don’t want to know I don’t want to know I don’t_ , he chants instead. Pushing himself away from the window, he catches up with Kajir, and they continue walking in silence. Shiro’s not sure what there is to say,, and he refuses to ask the questions that rise to his lips.

                  “I have a meeting to attend. If you wish to continue walking, I’ll come retrieve you for the evening meal,” Kajir says. “Otherwise, I’ll return you to your rooms.”

                  “I’ll stay,” Shiro answers quickly.

                  He’s not afraid of the room or anything like that. He’s not. It’s not that it makes him think of an empty cell with tallies scratched into the walls with a metal thumb, ragged line after ragged line to mark the passing fights. He just prefers it up here, is all.

                  “Very well,” Kajir says.

                  For once, they don’t seem put out by his choice. They simply give a little nod and turn on their heel to go back the way they’d come. Shiro watches them go a moment before turning back to the front. He doesn’t look back to the window gaping at his left.

                  The runners from before pass him twice more on the track, but they keep to the outer lanes this time. He half-wonders if Kajir said something to them and has to stifle a laugh at the thought. The track is otherwise mostly empty with only a few groups making their way around it. A few are clearly working out, but some look like families taking a mid-day stroll.

                  He’s made it around the track three times when he catches up to a female Altean and a toddler. From their matching mauve hair, he guesses they’re mother and child. The toddler turns towards him as he nears, a finger hooked in between her teeth. Her eyes go wide and she tugs on the older woman’s hand.

                  “Mama! Mama, look,” she says.

                  The woman turns with a frown, following the toddler’s gaze to Shiro. He lifts his fingers in a little wave, and the frown disappears into mortification.

                  “Naren, we don’t point at people,” she scolds quietly, shooting Shiro an apologetic look that he waves off.

                  “But Mama, he’s got a sad mark,” the toddler says.

                  They jab at the bridge of their nose as they say it, and Shiro’s own hand lifts in a subconscious mirror to brush his fingertips over the scar cutting through his own. Even years later, it still dips in where the bone didn’t quite heal right. Knots and bumps have left the skin permanently uneven there, and it sends a tingling sensation through his face when he touches it, like hot needle tips pricking against his nerve endings. He doesn’t remember how he got this one, and he’s never been sure whether he wants to. It’s impossible to ignore or hide, and he feels like he should at least be able to explain this one. On the other hand, he isn’t sure he wants any more nightmares.

                  “That’s none of our business, Naren,” the Altean says. “And we don’t stare.”

                  She turns to Shiro with an embarrassed smile.

                  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “We haven’t quite gotten a hold on manners.”

                  “Don’t worry about it,” Shiro says with a reflexive smile.

                  He must say it wrong somehow, because she freezes for a moment with an odd expression. She shakes it off quickly enough, but the hint of a confused frown lingers in the crease between her brows.

                  “I’m Jimita,” she says, extending her hand, “and this is Naren.”

                  “Shiro,” he replies, accepting her hand before crouching to offer his out to Naren. “It’s nice to meet you.”

                  Naren eyes him a moment, green eyes scrunched down in suspicion, before she relents and sticks her hand into his. It’s his prosthesis, and Shiro’s careful as he folds the fingers loosely around her smaller hand and gives it a gentle shake.

                  “Would you like to join us?” Jimita asks as he straightens up. “We’re just taking a walk before afternoon classes.”

                  His heart leaps at the offer, relief washing over him in a tidal wave. A warier part of him hesitates; it would be all too easy to make a mistake in a stranger’s company, and he doesn’t know what might happen if this universe becomes aware of the outsider in their midst. He ignores that for now. He’s an accomplished enough liar. He can make do.

                  “Thank you,” he says, “that would be nice.”

                  Jimita smiles at him, and they start walking again with Naren between them. She shoots Shiro a few uncertain looks before apparently determining him to be of no danger and settling back into wiggling a tooth at the front of her mouth.

                  Conversation takes a bit longer to pick up, but within a few minutes, Shiro and Jimita have fallen into easy chatter. She’s a scientist on the ship, charged with monitoring the teleduv technology, and her wife, Naren’s other mother, is a soldier in the empress’ guard. Shiro talks around his own history easily.

                  “You’re not from here, are you?” she asks abruptly.

                  Shiro freezes a moment, wondering how she could have figured it out so quickly, what he must have given away. It takes a beat to realize she just means Altea and not this universe. He laughs and rubs the back of his neck.

                  “What gave it away?” he asks.

                  Jimita gives a little smile, and taps the tip of her ear with her eyebrows raised.

                  “And, you know, we mostly know everyone here,” she says. “There’s only – what, thirty thousand of us? Even on a ship this size, you stop seeing new faces after a while.”

                  Shiro’s stomach twists even as he keeps a genial expression. There’s no reason to take thirty thousand civilians on a spaceship, just like there’s no reason to keep toddlers or teenagers aboard.

                  “We don’t get a lot of visitors, either,” Jimita continues. “They don’t usually make it on board in the first place, much less out in public. The empress is pretty protective – not that you can blame her after what happened.”

                  She keeps talking, but Shiro can’t quite make himself listen. The children, the memorial, the constant suspicion – _after what happened._ This isn’t a spaceship, he realizes. It’s an artificial planet, a refugee camp for the universe’s most powerful empire.

                  Something tickles along the back of his neck, like the brush of fingernails or the watchful gaze of someone else’s eyes. When he turns to look, the track is empty behind them.

                  He turns back to the front, unsettled, and nearly trips over his own feet.

                  “Lieutenant Kajir,” Jimita greets cheerfully. “How are you?”

                  “Well,” Kajir says with a small nod before turning to Shiro. “I’m here to escort you to the empress.”

                  Jimita’s eyebrows rise but her smile doesn’t falter. They say their goodbyes, and Kajir leads the way briskly down familiar halls. Shiro doesn’t try to make conversation this time. There’s too much on his mind, too many questions with answers he isn’t sure he wants.

                  Too soon, they stand before the same crested doors he entered the day before. The lion’s eyes glint in the blue light, and Shiro stifles a shiver. It’s not watching him, he knows. It’s not possible. That doesn’t make it feel any less real.

                  “I’ll be back to take you to your rooms,” Kajir says.

                  Shiro manages a nod. He doesn’t want them to leave for once. His nerves jitter under his skin, and questions shiver through him like bones rattling together.

                  The door opens.

                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten so used to my original fic recently that having a 2k chapter seems absurdly short


	5. Chapter 5

                  Allura’s already in the room this time, standing with her back to the door as she gazes up at the crest. Shiro hesitates on the threshold before clearing his throat.

                  “Empress?” he asks.

                  “Come in,” she says, as if she already knew he was there.

                  She likely did, he admits; it seems nothing happens without her knowing. He ignores the unease that crawls along his skin at the thought of that constant vigilance. It’s all too easy to remember the last time he was under constant surveillance and all the ruins that left behind.

                  He steps further into the room and walks to the corner of the table, not quite willing to go all the way to her side. It seems somehow presumptuous, to put himself at a level with her. The silence stretches between them, long and unbroken, until Shiro starts to itch under the weight of it.

                  Finally, Allura speaks.

                  “Kajir said you spent the afternoon on the upper parade,” she says.

                  “Yeah,” Shiro answers slowly, caught off-guard. “I’m not great at sitting still, and the lieutenant offered that as an alternative.”

                  He wonders if he should’ve asked her permission first, if she wanted him to stay in his room. He brushes it away; she’d said he could go where he pleased, and he’s certain Kajir would never disobey the empress’ wishes.

                  “A good option,” Allura hums.

                  Shiro nods, wondering where this is going. She doesn’t seem to be pressing the topic, but she’s the one who called him here. Surely it wasn’t for such inane conversation.

                  “Do you often walk there?” he asks, thinking of the hollow memorial at its center.

                  Allura scoffs, a breath of cold laughter.

                  “No,” she says as she turns away from the crest. “I don’t linger in the past.”

                  Bullshit, Shiro wants to say. It crawls at the back of his throat, screams against his skull. The past is a heavy mantle draped over this entire ship - in gilded crests and the strange way Allura looks at him sometime. It’s a black hole, with everyone aboard caught in its intractable orbit.

                  “I’ve had my scientists looking into a way to get you back to your universe,” Allura says.

                  Shiro’s jaw clicks shut, cutting off any words he might have said. He hadn’t expected that. Allura stops at the chair at the head of the table, a hand coming up to rest on its back. Her hands are as delicate as he remembers, thin and long. He knows without doubt that they share the same strength he knew before.

                  “We don’t have a solution, yet,” Allura continues, “but my scientists are the foremost in the entire universe. They will find a way or make one. If you want it.”

                  She pauses to level her cool blue gaze on him, and Shiro finds himself frozen. If he wants it? What could that even mean? He belongs in his universe, not here in this strange, haunted world. He’s only here in the first place because of an accident, because he put himself in the way of an attack that was meant for the Allura he’s known.

                  “Tell me, Shiro,” this Allura says, “what is waiting for you in your universe?”

                  “What do you mean?” he asks, suddenly guarded.

                  He can feel his hackles rising, fingers curling into his palms in tense fists. He forces them to loosen, but he can’t make his shoulders relax.

                  “You told me that the Black Lion rejected you,” Allura says dispassionately. Her gaze doesn’t waver and her face shows no hint of compassion. “The Galra took your arm and your memories and left you with what? Scars and the entire void of space between you and your home. Voltron has never needed six paladins, and you certainly can’t pilot the castle. So, tell me, Takashi Shirogane, what is there waiting for you in that other world?”

                  He stares at her, speechless. He feels somehow betrayed, even though he knows it’s stupid to feel that way. Allura owes him nothing, in this world or another, and this Allura in particular has proven she didn’t come to power through niceties. Still, he can’t find words in the way hers left his stance suddenly less steady.

                  As if sensing this turmoil, Allura’s expression softens just-so. It’s still not a kind expression, exactly. It’s more tired empathy than anything, as if she knows what he’s thinking because she’s felt it before.

                  “I don’t say this to be cruel, Shiro,” she says more gently. “I have no desire to hurt you. But there are forces in the universe far beyond our fathoming, and some times they bring us exactly where we’re meant to be.”

                  “But – my team,” he finally manages.

                  It comes out weaker than he expected, weaker than it should. Allura’s hand shifts on the back of the chair, almost as if she’s going to reach out to him. She doesn’t.

                  “You don’t have to decide now,” she says, “but there is a place for you here, if you want it. Your knowledge and experience would be invaluable for scientists and historians alike, and if you wanted none of that, then there is room here for you to live out the rest of your life. We live in peace, Shiro. You could too.”

                  She holds his gaze for a beat longer, then another. He can’t look away and he can’t find words to explain why he could never accept the offer. He has duties, responsibilities – the paladins, the war the – the – He swallows. He couldn’t. He needs to get back. But it’s an image that worms up his spine as if it intends to say, taking root in his very own thoughts and fears and doubts.

                  He could stay here, in this gilded Pax Altea. There would be no more war, no more struggle and fear and doubt. He would no longer be a Paladin, no longer carry the weight of the universe on his shoulders. He could help the scientists and historians understand his other world, or he could just – be. Rest. Fade into the multitude.

                  “I can’t,” he says.

                  He can’t leave the others behind. Not now, not after everything. It would be selfish, petty – proof that he never really was worthy of the title of Paladin.

                  Allura cants her head slightly, still watching him, before giving a slight nod.

                  “You don’t need to decide now,” she repeats. “It will take some time for the scientists to create a bridge to your universe. Take the time to consider it.”

                  He nods a little, swallowing hard. Too late, he manages to recompose himself.

                  “It’s a very generous offer,” he says, “and I appreciate it. I’ll take time to consider it fully, but I have an obligation to my team to return.”

                  As soon as the words have left his mouth, he wishes he’d said them differently – with more feeling and less duty. He loves his team – he _wants_ to return – right?

                  “I would expect nothing else,” Allura agrees easily. “I hope you won’t deny my invitation to dinner, though.”

                  “Of course,” Shiro says, startled.

                  It’s unnerving how easily she throws him off balance, and he finds himself floundering a little as he tries to keep up. He agrees without thinking about it, despite the part of his brain screaming for him to leave. It’s too difficult to think clearly around her, and the way her words take root and flower in his mind feels like a vine, invasive and inescapable.

                  But the flowers that bloom along that vine are tantalizing, drops of color from which he can’t look away. Her occasional smile, the intensity of her gaze, the easy strength with which she moves – every edge of her is dangerous, but he can’t bring himself to take a step back.

                  They don’t settle at the table here, though. Instead, Allura gestures for him to follow her as she sweeps from the room. He tags after a careful step behind where her cape trails in a tear-shape over the ground. Their walk is silent, and they don’t stop until they’re nearly halfway across the ship and up two flights. Shiro frowns as they walk, but he doesn’t ask where they’re going. As curious as he is, he’s aware that it having a name for their destination likely wouldn’t help that much.

                  When they do finally stop, it’s in front of a set of doors unadorned except for mirrored diagonal lights cutting through the front. They slide open, and Allura leads the way inside.

                  “You said you spent your life looking to the stars,” she comments over her shoulder. “I thought you might enjoy being able to see them.”

                  Shiro’s startled by the feeling of a smile spreading his lips as he tilts his head up to take in the sight before them. The entire ceiling and curving front wall of the room is glass, a panoramic window to the stars.

                  “It’s beautiful,” he says. “Thank you.”

                  Allura makes a quiet hum of acknowledgment, and Shiro lingers a moment longer before pulling his gaze away from the sky to find her. She stands beside a low table surrounded by floor pillows. It’s sleek and white, the pillows a variety of dark blues and purples. Shiro stares a moment before slowly walking over to join her. The relaxed style of the table contrasts sharply with the rest of what he’s seen of the ship, and it feels strange to see Allura standing in her cape and armor before it.

                  “This is my private dining room,” Allura explains. “No one will disturb us here.”

                  She unfastens her cape as she speaks, unhooking the heavy gold clasp over her sternum and draping the entire piece over the pillows nearest the window. Without it, she doesn’t look any less regal, but she does seem somehow more approachable. Shiro can’t quite place why: she’s still wearing the angular white breastplate and gleaming crown, after all. With the absence of the cloak, though, she seems somehow younger, especially as she settles onto the pillows and reaches back with one hand to arrange all her curls on her left shoulder. Shiro sits on the opposite side of the table, sinking into the cushions.

                  “Any requests?” Allura asks as she swipes three fingertips over the table surface.

                  A trail of cyan lights up after her touch, dissipating into an apparent touch screen. “I’m not sure what’s available,” Shiro admits. “You’d be better off deciding.”

                  They haven’t exactly had time for gastro-tourism in his universe, and who knows what cuisines this universe has, anyway. Allura looks up at him, narrows her eyes, and then smiles as she turns back to the screen. It’s a more genuinely happy smile than he’s seen before, a little pleased with herself as her fingers tap away at the screen. Finished, she whisks it away and settles back on her elbow on one of the pillows. One leg is loosely folded beneath her, the other stretched out to the side as she turns her gaze to the stars. She looks like an artist’s rendering of ancient Greek women on their chaises, of Cleopatra fanned by slaves.

                  “You’re staring.”

                  Shiro flushes as Allura glances at him, amused.

                  “I - sorry, it’s just” - he cuts off as she lifts a hand.

                  “I didn’t say I mind,” she replies. “What’s on your mind?”

                  If anything, the comment makes his cheeks grow hotter, and he briefly wishes he could melt into the floor beneath the pillows. Instead, his fingers twist together and he glances down at the table surface to recompose himself.

                  “It’s just…” He hesitates, shakes his head slightly, and lifts it to meet her gaze. “This universe seems like - like a miracle of sorts. In ours, Altea is destroyed and the universe ripped apart by war. Here, though - it seems like no one’s ever thought of war.”

                  Allura watches him thoughtfully as he speaks and then turns her gaze back to the window, considering.

                  “I have lived through war,” she says. “I have fought and lost. I would not permit those hardships on my people.”

                  She looks to him, then, and the thoughtfulness has given way to bare steel.

                  “I know I don’t need to tell you of the consequences of war,” she says. “They are tattooed to you as surely as to me. If you could stop it from ever happening again, what would you give?”

                  “Everything,” Shiro admits readily.

                  His life, his freedom - he would give whatever it took to bring peace and stop anyone else from suffering. It’s not a question that really needs much thought to answer. He would give the same answer at every point in his life, and especially now, after all he’s seen and done, he knows it’s true.

                  Allura nods. There’s a little smile on her lips, somehow melancholy. She knew he would give that answer, he realizes, and he wonders at her reaction. He doesn’t get a chance to ask, though, before the door slides open once again.

                  He tenses, startled by the intrusion into their quiet conversation, but it’s only two servants. They bow over the trays they carry and then, silently, bring them to the low table. Another bow, and they disappear out the door.

                  “There was a person who helped me yesterday,” Shiro starts, suddenly reminded. “Calla? I haven’t seen them since and just wondered…”

                  “If they were alright?” Allura asks, looking immensely amused. “The servants have rotating schedules. If you prefer their company, of course, the schedule can be moved.”

                  “Oh, no,” Shiro says hurriedly. “Not like that. It’s just nice to have a familiar face some times, but it’s not that important.”

                  Allura breathes out a quiet laugh and turns to her tray. A tap of her finger sends the lid into nothingness, and Shiro follows suit.

                  “Oh!” he says, startled.

                  It can’t be, and yet before him is laid out an entire plate of sushi. A closer look shows it’s not really the sushi he knows – for one thing, he’s never seen sashimi with electric blue streaks glowing in it – but the similarities are too close to be a coincidence. He looks up to find Allura watching him.

                  “How - ?” he starts but can’t finish – there are too many questions with that very same beginning.

                  “A lucky guess,” Allura says with an easy, smug smile. “Please, enjoy.”

                  There are chopsticks lying to the side of the tray, black with a silver-blue band near the thicker end. Shiro frowns at them a moment before gingerly picking them up with his right hand. It’s been years since he last used them, long before he had the prosthesis, and he’s not entirely sure if its dexterity is enough to work. He rarely has a need for fine movements with the weapon welded to his bones.

                  He picks them up uncertainly, balanced carefully between his thumbtip and the side of his fingers. It’s not always easy to tell how much pressure the prosthesis is exerting, and he fumbles a moment between snapping the chopsticks and dropping them on the plate. When he finally secures them well enough to pick up a roll, he’s hit by a heady wash of triumph – and immediately embarrassment. He glances over at Allura, suddenly mortified by the thought of her watching his struggle with something so trivial.

                  She’s leaned back, though, eyes closed as she apparently savors the sushi. She opens her eyes after a moment and raises an eyebrow at whatever expression she finds on his face.

                  “Do you like it?” she asks, gesturing with her own chopsticks to the tray.

                  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s different but – good.”

                  It’s not a lie. The taste is brighter and tarter than any sushi he’d had on Earth, but it’s evened out with the taste of the pseudo-rice around it. The texture is similar, and when he tries the blue sashimi, it almost tastes like tuna back home.

                  Allura watches him a moment, lips curled up in a satisfied smile. There’s something unwontedly open about her expression, a softness in her gaze he’s only seen once before.

                  “Different but good,” she echoes. She gives a nod. “I’m glad.”

                  They settle into a comfortable silence, broken only by the click of chopsticks and the occasional tap of them against the trays. Conversation is light between them and skims around the questions from earlier in the day. For the first time in days, Shiro feels himself relax as his wait sinks comfortably into the pillows and he grows used to holding the sticks between his fingers.

                  Stars shoot past the window, flickering bright and fading into darkness. When Shiro glances out, he catches their reflections mirrored back at him; both reclined on the pillows and oriented towards each other like two parentheses. In that dim reflection, he looks as if he belongs.

                   

                   

                 

 

                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm attempting to actually maintain a legit posting schedule between the 3 longfics I have going on right now. This is....not a thing I have ever in my life actually done, so don't be surprised if it fails rapidly.
> 
> That said, the goal is to post a new chapter of this every Tuesday. Time of day will probs vary, but hopefully it'll be before 11:59 lmao
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the comments on these chapters - it's honestly such a delight to read them and really makes writing more fun. <3


	6. Chapter 6

                   “Think on it,” Allura says, all understated order, when they depart.

                  Shiro answers with a nod, not trusting his words to reply. He doesn’t know right now what would come out. His body is all loose and easy from their dinner, and it would be too easy to say something he doesn’t mean – or doesn’t want to.

                  He and Kajir walk quietly back down the halls, but for once it isn’t a forced silence. Shiro’s wrapped up in his own thoughts, and he mulls over them rather than attempting conversation. They reach his door before he’s realized it, and Kajir hesitates before departing. There’s something in their expression – as if there’s something they want to say but can’t quite get out. Shiro waits.

                  “I would like to apologize for my behavior,” they begin stiffly. “I do not trust readily, but…the Empress trusts you. So I will trust you.”

                   They say it grudgingly, but Shiro’s still a little impressed by the admission. He raises his hand slightly, catches himself, and folds it back down.

                  “There’s no need to apologize,” he says, “You were protecting your Empress; I could never fault you for that. But… maybe we can be on the same side from here on out.”

                  Kajir’s expression twists into a painful mix that Shiro can’t quite decipher – frustration, sadness, and something else besides. They shake their head slightly and the expression clears before he can question it. They offer their right hand.

                  “May we work together in the future,” they say.

                  Shiro accepts it, clasping Kajir’s forearm a little uncertainly. Their grip is firmer than his, though he can only just feel it through the prosthesis. The pressure receptors past his wrist are really only enough to let him know if the prosthesis is in danger, and Kajir’s grip only barely registers.

                  They give a slight bow over their connected arms and then release him to return back down the hallway. Shiro watches them go till they disappear. He doesn’t turn to his chamber when they’ve gone, though.

                  He’s too restless to sleep, he knows. Betraying Kajir’s new trust like this makes his stomach twist a little, but he brushes it aside with the consolation that they’ll never know and that he’s not doing anything wrong, really. He just needs a walk to clear his head. He’ll be back in a few minutes at most.

                  He turns in the opposite direction Kajir took, away from the routes they’ve taken these past few days. The hall is empty and quiet save for his own footfalls, and Shiro eyes the doors he passes with quiet curiosity. If he opened one, would he find it empty? How many of these rooms house only ghosts?

                  The thought startles him, and he pauses with a hand lifted to open one of the doors. It wasn’t a conscious act, and the lack of control makes him stumble back, unsettled. Pulling his hand back to his side, he starts walking again, this time a little more briskly.

                  That feeling of being watched is back, a constant tickle at the nape of his neck, and he reaches a hand back absently, as if he can block that feeling by just rubbing at his neck. When he realizes what he’s doing, he drops his hand quickly and scolds himself for being so unnerved. His relaxed state from dinner is dissipating, leaving him groggy and with the start of a wicked headache.  

                  He turns, at last, and opens a random door. To his surprise, the door opens to just his palm against the scanner. He pauses in the doorway, waiting for some warning system or an Altean guard to jump out and arrest him. Nothing happens.

                  After another long moment, just in case, he steps inside. The door slides shut behind him with barely a sound.

                  It takes a bit for Shiro to realize what he’s found. There are no bookshelves or computer banks like the libraries on Earth, but he recognizes the control centers from his own universe. Staring, he wanders closer and brushes his fingertips over the console. Compared to what he’s seen of the ship in this universe, this has to be outdated tech, obsolete.

                  On a whim, he flattens his left hand over the console. There’s a flicker of cyan static and then, slowly, it lights up and produces the familiar hologram. The cyan screen is the only light in the room, and it casts an eerie glow over the walls and floor. Around the room, other consoles reflect back the light in little crescents of blue.

                  He’s not fluent in Altean by any means, but Shiro’s worked to have a passable knowledge of it over the past few years. It still doesn’t come as readily to his tongue as Galran, but he refuses to think about that.

                  Flicking through the menus pulled up on the hologram, he stops at one that’s titled either ‘archives’ or ‘help.’ He selects it.

                  Immediately, he’s surrounded. Blue squares encircle him, filing back in row upon row until it seems they’ll pass through the walls. He twists around, gaping at the innumerable files around him. It’s impossible to sift through these or find some order in their infinite rows.

                  He hesitates, racking his brain for any feasible method. An idea slips up and he grimaces, already sure it won’t work.

                  “Boshquiz dukar?” he asks, pronunciation shaky.

                  There’s a gentle flash and then the files shift to create an opening directly before him. A search bar of sorts appears, and Shiro breathes out a startled sigh of relief. He’s only had to use Altean to activate the voice search in his universe once before, when the castle mainframe suffered an attack and its translator started malfunctioning. They’d all gotten a crash course in basic Altean commands that week, but he hasn’t had to use it much since.

                  “What would you like to search for?” a pleasant voice asks.

                  Shiro pauses. He came here just to get away from that prickling sensation of being watched, and the rest had just been curiosity. He didn’t really have a plan. Still, an answer rises to his tongue without conscious thought. He holds it back at first, all too aware of what curiosity did to the cat. Still –

                  “Takashi Shirogane.”

                   – he’s been dead enough times before. Maybe he’s got a few lives left.

                   There’s a moment where nothing happens, and he feels incredibly stupid and narcissistic. Did he really think that would work? Whatever story he’s missing here, it’s unlikely to be solved so easily.

                   Then, abruptly, the files shuffle to the left to clear the way for a new section that flies forward. There are hundreds – each with a barred lock crossed over it. His shoulders slump. After a moment of staring at all those locked files, he reaches out and swipes idly through them.

                   There are a lot more than he’d expect to come up even in his universe, and he flips through them in the hopes of getting some idea of their contents from the titles alone. They appear to be named by date, though, and without an idea of the current date, he has no idea how old the files are. He gives a last half-hearted swipe and lets his arm fall back to his side. The folders whiz by, and then stop.

                   This file isn’t locked. For a moment, he just stares. It could be a trap – bait to lure him into making a mistake that gives away his location and brings all the guards running down to arrest him. He brushes that thought away quickly enough. If digging through classified files hasn’t notified anyone, it seems improbable that this would. He clicks on the file.

                   They’re photos. None of them are great; they look like snapshots taken by an inexperienced hand. There’s an open shot of space, the stars slightly blurred; twin suns rising over the curve of an unfamiliar planet; an Altean clearly rolling their eyes but still smiling. Without any context, they don’t make much of a story, but Shiro starts piecing together a fractured one all the same. An explorer, perhaps, a visitor taking pictures as souvenirs of things that matter to them but maybe not in the grand scheme of things. On Earth, his phone was full of similar photos – a little out of focus sometimes, often of trivial things like a cup of coffee at a new café or a window with a crisp reflection of the sky.

                   Then, the photos change. The quality doesn’t improve much, but it’s the subjects that take Shiro’s breath away.

                   Allura’s first – young, laughing, with her hair in twin buns up on her head and her cheekmarks still small and light. She looks so much like the Allura he knows that he nearly stumbles with shock. He stares, hand frozen halfway to reaching out and touching the image.

                   He swipes to the next and chokes. It’s the team. Pidge, Keith, Lance, Hunk – all of them crowded into one sloppy photo. It takes a long minute for him to recognize the differences. Pidge is Olkarion, with slim brown circle markings that mimick the glasses he knows; Lance has blue skin and ear-like ridges that extend back; Hunk is Balmeran; and Keith – Keith has the pale purple skin of a Galra, with near-white markings cutting up over his jawline.

                   And, in the very center, is him. Shiro stares at his own grinning face, at the shock of white hair falling into his eyes and the scar cutting over his nose. It’s not identical – the scar is a little crooked and there are Altean marks on his cheekmarks, a bright rich purple – but it’s him all the same. He recognizes the tiredness in his grey eyes, the way the smile isn’t quite as broad as it once was.

                   Allura is just below him, settled into his chest like she belongs and smiling up at the camera. Like the first picture he saw, she doesn’t have the crooked marks of quintessence corruption yet, and there’s a youthfulness to her gaze that he’s never seen in this universe.

                   He takes a step back, then another, and then one more until his legs hit the edge of one of the desks. Slowly, as if in a trance, he sinks down to sit. He doesn’t take his eyes off the photo projected before him.

                   Even with different species, he knows it’s his team. It’s as if he can feel it, somehow, pulling on his heart.

                   He doesn’t want it to be. Whatever happened here, whatever tragedy took the paladins and Allura’s smile and his own doppelganger – he doesn’t want it to have happened to his team. It’s selfish, he knows, to want it to happen to anyone but those he cares about. He doesn’t care. For once, he ignores the guilt. His team doesn’t deserve this. They’re too young, too full of life. They don’t deserve to be relegated to some photo locked away in a forgotten room.

                  It’s not fair.

                  For the first time in what seems a lifetime, Shiro’s hit by a wave of anger. His fists tighten, the prosthesis digging into the desk surface.

                  None of this is fair. It’s not fair that they were dragged into an intergalactic war in the first place, and it’s not fair that they have to keep fighting after all they’ve been through, and it’s not fair that they’re dead here. It’s not fair that he’s here, that he’s had everything that matters to him stripped away. He shakes with the unfairness of it, fine tremors racing through his limbs.

                  He can’t remember the last time he was so angry. He’s always worked to be the level-headed one of the group, to be the person who keeps the rest of them balanced. He doesn’t let himself think about his own suffering because there’s no point. So he suffered, so what? It’s always been his job to keep moving forward for everyone else’s sake. But no one’s here now, and it seems all the anger he’s bottled up these last years has suddenly been shaken loose.

                  He doesn’t lash out or punch one of the consoles, though the thought is tempting. He knows he’d regret it once he cooled down. Instead, he straightens and lets the anger settle down under his skin like an ember.

                  There’s no sense making a mess, but there’s a fight here he’s been avoiding. He’s done. If Allura wants him to consider staying here, wants him to give in to her honey-sweet siren’s call, then she owes him answers. He has a right to know.

                  Behind him, there’s a noise. He pauses, turning back over his shoulder but it doesn’t come again. It had sounded almost like a lion – like Black – as if from far away. He waits, fists closed at his sides. The silence stretches long and deep.

                  Turning away, he continues back to his room. The noise doesn’t come again, and for once, that needling sensation of being watched doesn’t reappear. There’s something else, though, the start of some new presence brushing against his own. It’s too faint to make out yet, but it feels – comforting, almost. Like something watching out for him. He reaches out, but the sensation slips away like wind through his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13k in Shiro finally has a Feeling™


	7. Chapter 7

                  No one comes for him in the morning. At first, he thinks they’re just running late. He runs through his exercises and then fidgets a bit, waiting. When it becomes clear no one’s coming, he starts to itch. What if they know he snuck out last night and got into something he shouldn’t have? What if this is his punishment for his curiosity? As far as punishments go, he’s hard-pressed to think of a worse one than being left in isolation with his thoughts.

                  He goes back through his exercises and throws a few extras in for good measure.

                  Some of his fierce determination from the night before has worn off in the intervening hours, but he clings to what is left. He doesn’t have any proof of what he saw, but he knows he didn’t make it up. It was too much for his own mind to fabricate. He’s not that imaginative and – he’d like to think – not that masochistic. What he saw was real.

                  He just doesn’t know what it means.

                  He has theories, of course, but he can’t quite put his faith in any of them, and none of them give a complete picture. He has pieces and shards of the story but their jagged pieces don’t quite align.

                  He’s already made the bed and just started fussing about his already-clean room when there’s a knock and the door slides open. He straightens immediately.

                  It’s a servant, one he hasn’t seen before. They enter with the usual covered tray of food, and Shiro slowly relaxes. He steps around the end of the bed as the servant settles the tray on his table.

                  “Hi,” he greets. “Is everything alright?”

                  He doesn’t want to get them in trouble if they were just running late, but paranoia still runs ant-like under his skin.

                  “Everything is well within the Empire,” the servant answers, two-fingered hands clasped before them.

                  Shiro nods slowly. A thought occurs to him, one he’s not sure he really wants to pursue. The servant turns to leave.

                  “Hey!” he calls. “What’s your name?”

                  They pivot to face him and give a jerky little bow.

                  “You may call me Calla,” they say rotely.  “I work to serve the Empress.”

                  Shiro watches them go without trying to stop them again. Once they’ve left, he turns to the breakfast they brought, but he finds he has little appetite. They’d given the exact answer he didn’t want to hear.

                  He doesn’t bring it up when Kajir finally comes to get him. He tucks it away like a note folded into a little white triangle in the back of his mind. He’s long had a compartment in his mind where he locks away all the things he won’t let himself think about, but since arriving in this reality, there’s a new one by its side full of all the things that make his skin crawl here. It’s smaller than the first but growing steadily by the day.

                  “Is there a library on the ship?” he asks instead.

                  Kajir frowns, as if the word is unfamiliar.

                  “Sort of like a databank?” Shiro tries. “A place where you can get reading material. Back on Earth, I was kind of a nerd.”

                  He says it with an intentionally abashed smile, affecting as much innocence as he believably can. Kajir’s expression shifts to one of incredulousness at the last word. Normally, Shiro wouldn’t blame them for judging English, but he’s been around Alteans long enough now to know they have no room to talk.

                  “There is the General Information Catalogue,” Kajir says, “but the Empress has her private reserves as well.”

                  They say it with a sidelong look his way, as if judging his reaction. Shiro keeps his expression neutral but interested. He gives a little nod.

                  “I might ask her if I get a chance,” he says. “I just could use something to do in the evenings.”

                  What suspicion had crept into Kajir’s expression dissipates at that, and they give a firmer nod.

                  “I’ll take you to the GIC,” they say. “You’ll be dining with the Empress in the evening if you do wish to ask her.”

                  “Great,” Shiro says with a smile.

                  Finding an objective, or making his own, has him more settled than he’s been in weeks. It’s as if it’s given him purpose, and with it, stability. He feels more solid than he has since the last time he returned from the Galra’s hands.

                  The GIC, it turns out, is designed much like the library he found last night. As he expected, it’s a lot newer, though: the old consoles have all been replaced by sleek white remotes the size of a cell phone back on Earth. Kajir gives him a quick explanation of how to use them and then sets him loose.

                  There’s a corner in the back of the room that’s empty save for a round, almost egg-like chair. Its curved sides prevent anyone from seeing inside, and when he’s settled into it, Shiro feels almost like he’s in his own personal cave. He still has clear sightlines for most the room, and the combination leaves him feeling almost safe.

                  He doesn’t immediately start looking into this world’s Shiro or paladins. It might be paranoia, but he decides to mix it in with other searches to make it seem an accident rather than the entire point of coming here.

                  He starts with ‘earth’ for lack of a better option. No results come back, and he’s not sure if it’s because the Alteans haven’t found it yet or because it doesn’t exist in this universe. Allura showed no recognition of the name, and Jimita had only noticed that he wasn’t Altean, not that he was from Earth. It sends an odd chill down his spine, to think of living in a world where his own doesn’t exist.

                  He moves on from there to seeing what the Alteans have discovered and if he recognizes any of it. He doesn’t, but he finds himself enjoying his search anyway. He doesn’t lose track of his mission, but it’s hard not to marvel at all the discoveries the Alteans have made – technology and planets and aliens. He wasn’t lying when he called himself a nerd – even if matt would argue he was more of a geek.

                  That thought startles him out of his search and sobers his delight. He sees Matt more in communications holograms than in person. Even when they are on the same ship, there’s a distance between them there never was before. That missing year yawns chasmal between them still.

                  He turns his thoughts pointedly away. Friends grow apart sometimes. It’s part of growing up. He’d just never thought it would happen to them.

                  He shifts his search more towards his actual goal, refocusing and pushing aside other thoughts. Searching for any of the paladins’ names returns nothing. When he tries his own, even the locked files of the night before don’t appear. Shiro frowns. It could be that they were intentionally left behind when the ship moved to this new tech, or that they’re kept on some sort of private server. It’s frustrating but not overly; he knows where to look, after all. He moves on.

                  ‘Voltron’ brings up general information: how King Alfor made the great lions and how they were used to fight evil throughout the universe. There’s no mention of the Galra – not that Black was created on their planet or that Zarkon was her first paladin. There’s no trace of their purple anywhere in the results.

                  When they speak of its end, the stories say only that Voltron was sacrificed to save the universe. There’s neither image nor mention of its paladins.

                  Shiro leans back in the chair, dissatisfied. It’s not much of a story. There are too many gaps, too many glossed-over parts. He closes out of the documents and sits there a moment, considering.

                  Realistically, he knows very little about this universe. Voltron existed, once, and so did a group too similar to his own team to be a coincidence. The Champion, too, existed in some form. Once, Allura still smiled.

                  It’s enough for conjectures, nothing more. He needs more information – information that hasn’t been censored and diluted for public digestion.

                  He’s hit with the sudden wish for his team. In part, Pidge and Hunk would undoubtedly be able to hack into these databanks – but more than that, it would be nice to not face this alone. He’s always been independent, but over these last few years, he’s grown accustomed to their company – to Hunk’s dry sarcasm and Lance’s bad flirting and all of them together.

                  _Knock it off,_ he scolds himself. Now isn’t the time for homesickness – especially not for somewhere that isn’t really his home. It doesn’t work; if the team isn’t his home, what is? The Garrison? The truth is, he’s homeless, adrift among the stars.

                  Allura’s offer comes to him, pricking up the back of his neck like nails. He could make a home here. He could build a new life.

                  He shuts off the tablet and stands, as if he can simply walk away from his own thoughts.

                  Kajir’s just walking in when Shiro reaches the front of the room, and they look startled to see him. He hopes his mood doesn’t show through, and he fights to project an easy attitude. There’s no need to raise Kajir’s suspicions now when he’s only just started to earn their trust.

                  “Did you find something?” they ask.

                  For a moment, Shiro thinks they know. They’re already onto him – onto his excursion last night and his search today. He forces his hackles down.

                  “I kind of got sucked into a research pit,” he admits. “Can I take this back to my room?”

                  “Yes, of course,” Kajir says. “What do you wish to do after lunch?”

                  Shiro hesitates. He knows what he wants to do, but he can’t exactly tell Kajir that.

                  “Would it be okay if I just hung out in my room?” he asks. “I’m a little wiped.”

                  Kajir considers him a moment and then nods.

                  “Of course,” they agree.

                  They don’t ask any questions, to Shiro’s relief. He was banking on them not knowing him well enough to think the request out of character. The last thing he wanted right now was increased surveillance.

                  They leave him in his room, and after a bit, a servant arrives with his lunch. He makes himself eat it at a normal pace, even though he’s tempted to forgo eating entirely to continue his search. When he’s finished, he fiddles around his room for a few additional minutes; he plays with the tablet for a bit, wanders around his room until he thinks enough time has passed. Only then does he slip out of the room and back down the hall.

                  He’s more cautious this time – it’s not the dead of night and who knows who could pass by and spot him. Fortunately, it’s a quiet hallway and he makes it back to the library without encountering anyone.

                  Inside, it’s exactly the same as it was last night. The consoles sit dormant in the dark, and his steps quiet as the door slides shut behind him. Something about the room makes it feel like a tomb or something, a place deserving of reverence. He walks softly between the desks until he reaches the same console he used yesterday.

                  He settles in for a longer search this time and works systematically. He opens the writing app he found when he was messing with the tablet after lunch. Each paladin gets their own section topped by their name and a collection of tag words that could provide some help. It’s alphabetical, because he’d like to have some semblance of organization for this haphazard chase. If nothing else, it makes him feel a little more confident about his chance of success. At the bottom, he adds Allura and Coran.

                  There isn’t much information to start with. ‘Hunk’ gets a few hits, but it turns out the Altean translator recognizes the lower-case version of his name: his screen is abruptly flooded by pictures of shirtless, muscle-bound Alteans. He grimaces, clicks out of the search and switches to Keith.

                  When he doesn’t find much for that, he moves onto the keywords. The Blade of Marmora is first, and finally, he gets a result. A single folder comes up, free of the normal lock symbol. He almost doesn’t click it: it seems too much like a trap.

                  Finally, reluctantly, he reaches up and taps the folder. It opens, spilling out files. Most are mission reports and communication briefs. All are written in Altean. He swipes through them until he hits photos. He almost recognizes a few of them – thinks he’s seen them in his own reality before – but none stand out. Then, they do.

                  Keith stands with his back to the camera, but his hood’s down and his face is turned to the camera. Even purple and with triangle ears folded back, that scowl is unmistakable. Shiro’s breath catches and he pauses with his hand still halfway to the files. He tracks the differences in Keith’s face here versus the one he knows; other than the obvious, they’re nearly identical.

                  The file caption isn’t of much help: _Members of the Blade of Marmora gather before a mission._ There’s no geotag and what metadata is available is sparse: Blade of Marmora, Intergalactic Coalition, War. He waffles over these for a moment before clicking on the last one. It’s the first time he’s seen any mention of war here.

                  It takes a little longer for these files to load, as if they’re being dragged from some deep reserve. When they do come, most of them are locked. He’s not particularly surprised, and he flips through them till he finds one that isn’t. He opens it.

                   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tangentially related to this fic, y'all should check out Alejandra Pizarnik's poetry - v haunting and lovely


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